Chapter 7 - The Family Dinner Ambush
Uncle Richard looked up from the table, his eyes bloodshot, his face a mask of bitter realization.
“Arthur,” Richard croaked, his voice cracking with humiliation. “The checks... how much did she take?”
“Seventeen thousand, four hundred dollars across six months,” my father replied without mercy. “And that’s just what Nora was able to pull from the digitized archive. Henderson has the physical deposit slips here. Patrice forged my mother’s name every single time.”
Richard covered his mouth, breathing heavily. “She told me... she told me your mother gave her an early gift to pay off our second mortgage. She told me you were jealous because Mom always loved her more. God, I’ve been living with a stranger.”
“Where is she, Richard?” I asked.
Richard pulled out his phone, his hands still trembling. “She’s at her sister-in-law’s house. She thinks this is going to blow over. She actually texted me an hour ago telling me to make sure you and Arthur didn't slander her name to the rest of the family.”
A cold, methodical resolve took over my father. He stood up straight, buttoning his coat. “Call her, Richard. Tell her there’s a family meeting at my house at six o'clock tonight. Tell her we’re dividing Mom’s remaining physical heirlooms from the safe-deposit box.”
Judith stood up hastily. “Arthur, this is a Miller family affair. Grant and I will take our leave—”
“No, you won’t, Judith,” Grant said, his voice cold and hard as iron. He didn't look at his mother; he looked straight ahead, his eyes fixed on the photograph of baby Brigid. “You’re coming to Arthur’s house tonight. You were more than happy to sit at Patrice’s table when she was dragging Nora through the mud. You’re going to be there when the truth gets laid out.”
“Grant Alexander, I am your mother!” she hissed.
“And Nora is my wife!” Grant yelled, the explosion echoing off the bank conference room walls, shocking Henderson and making Judith stumble backward. “Nora is the mother of my child, whom you made me doubt! You will sit in that room, Mother, or by God, I will change the locks on our house and you will never see Rowan take another step.”
Judith shrank back, genuinely terrified by the fury in her son’s voice.
By 5:45 PM that evening, my father’s living room was packed. My brother Nolan had arrived, looking uneasy after Grant had sent him a scathing three-page text message that afternoon. Uncle Richard sat in the corner armchair, silent and staring blankly at the floor.
At exactly 6:02 PM, the front door clicked open.
Patrice walked in, dressed in a sharp beige pantsuit, wearing oversized sunglasses that she pushed to the top of her head. She carried herself with the performative arrogance of someone who believed she was untouchable, flashing a tight, condescending smile at the room.
“Well,” Patrice announced, tossing her keys onto the entryway table. “I see we’ve gathered the tribunal. Arthur, I hope you’re ready to apologize for Nora’s little theatrical display yesterday. Falsely accusing family members of criminal acts is actionable, you know.”
Nobody smiled. Nobody moved.
My father sat in his armchair behind a small coffee table. On that table sat a projector connected to my laptop, pointing directly at the bare white wall behind Patrice.
“Sit down, Patrice,” my father said quietly.
May you like
Patrice’s smirk faltered slightly as she noticed Uncle Richard’s red-rimmed eyes and Judith sitting silently on the sofa, pale and rigid. “Richard? What are you doing sitting over there like a scolded dog?”
“Sit down,” Richard repeated, his voice dangerously low.
